Continuity

At a very weepy moment in Downton Abbey last night, I found myself dabbing at my eyes with tissues, failing to stem the tears. I almost looked across at the person who was no longer there, in the chair that is no longer there either. In the past, Andrew and I would have noticed ourselves weeping at the same moment, would have caught each other's eyes and laughed ruefully through our tears at our shared sentimentality. Then we'd have reached out and held hands.

Not this time. I cried a little harder for that. Still, it was a nice memory.  Such absolute rapport!

It was typical of the phase I'm going through now. There's a sort of continuity I'm aware of, between who I was with him around and who I am now. Why should this seem remarkable? Surely it's only to be expected: I'm the same person, still me. Yet it does feel surprising. 

I don't quite know how to explain, but it's as if, on some level, I'm weaving the past and present together by virtue of me being the same, doing the same things, having the same reactions. 

These last few days I've been fighting off another cold; not a very bad one, but it's in no hurry to leave. I found myself wishing there was someone who could come and take care of me a bit, as Andrew would have done. Then I realised I don't actually want or need anyone who isn't him. I have such warm memories, I can use them to take care of myself. Does that make sense? It does to me, even if I can't explain it adequately. 

It is as though he has taught me and enabled me to take care of myself in just the ways he would have done. 

He is here, with me always. I don't mean as a spirit watching over me, though I don't discount that. I mean that he has left an imprint behind. It's in this home, and in my many memories, and it's with me wherever I am. 

He was so very engaged with life, even with the minutiae of our lives together; how could that essence not remain?